Sweet Agape Nectar
by Little Grey Kida
Summary: Coffeeshop AU. Hastings never met Poirot before the war, nor did he convalesce at Styles. After being invalided home from the front, the good Captain is drawn into barista work by the last wishes of his mother.


Looking back on my life, I sometimes wondered what would've happened if I had not followed my mother's wishes back in 1918. We had not really gotten on well in the earlier years of her life, and she was too sick to rebuild bridges. I can see now in retrospect that there was no logical reason for me to say yes to her requests - in fact, at the time of me agreeing, it would've made far more sense for me to say no - but I still had said yes. And to this day, although I do not regret my decision, I still do not know why I did it. Was this Lady Fate wielding her power to set forth a particular set of events?

Let me explain more clearly. I had been an army captain for the majority of my adult life, fighting in the Great War, until I was invalidated out in the summer of 1916, and again in 1918. I returned home from the front to the news that my mother had passed away weeks after I first had left for the front in 1914. My sister had not deemed it necessary to inform me of this at the time of her death, citing that she did not want me to become "distracted" on the front line. The will had already been executed - I was left with a small pittance and, for some strange reason, my grandmothers old cafe. Mother had specifically left it to me, with a message that I should run the place and "drop that damn gun and stay away from that bloody war". It was a bit late now, I had thought wryly at the time.

I did fear maybe I had bitten off more than I could chew when agreeing to take on the old cafe - not only had the place been out of use since my grandmother's death in 1898, my grandmother had never been known for sensibility when it came to anything. An example of this was her naming my mother Rose, and dressing her in various shades of pink up until the age of six. I was already visualising out of date decor and rusted machinery before I had even set foot in the place.

As it turned out, it was not as bad as I had feared. Admittedly, the wallpaper was a horrendous shade of orange, and the carpeted floor was stained with things that I had no desire to ever see again, but the building was structurally sound and in a good position - right on the main street. A large window at the front of the building looked out onto a busy zebra crossing, across from which sat a small church, and to it's left, a large side street leading directly to the river. There would have to be a few months hard graft to fix the place up to a suitable standard, but it wasn't anything unmanageable.

Renovating the old place wasn't the only problem. Although I had experience working as a barista in my youth, I had none as a chef. Many people could attest to the fact that I could not cook, having tried my rock hard scones and various other burnt edibles. I could make coffee, I could make tea, but cakes? Biscuits? I was hopeless!

A miracle came to me via the newspaper. I had been perusing the back pages when I discovered a personal advert from a young woman named Marion, who was searching for work as a cook. She had much experience in these matters - having trained as a chef in Belgium, she had run a cafe along with her mother and grandmother since a young age, and worked in many high class restaurants after leaving school. I was surprised that such a talented chef had not been snapped up by some upper class family, but I did not question my luck and responded to the advert.

We met for an informal interview one Wednesday afternoon, and I soon discovered the reason why she was unemployed - she was the mother of twin boys, whose father had been captured and presumably killed in Occupied Belgium, her mother country, during the war. Although her boys were school age, she did not have time to work the long shifts required in the high class English restaurants. I also suspected that she did not want a fast paced job after the stress of evacuating the war-torn country. Either way, her skill and my sympathy for anyone left behind after the war ensured that I welcomed her to the cafe with open arms.

It was difficult to get started at first. Rationing that continued after the end of the war, as well as a general poverty among those in blitzed London was a very large hurdle to get over. Some days I wondered if we would ever be able to survive at all. But somehow, we made it work. The horrors of war had left their mark - both the invalided soldiers and civilians yearned for informal comforts, instead of the regimented, orderly scraps that came from ration books and sardine cans.

Perhaps it was not comfortable living, but I was content. I saw so many old soldier boys coming in during their lunch break, looking glum and forlorn after just a few hours at their desk jobs, and I was glad I was not one of them. But that wasn't the only reason I was happy with my lot. For you see, it was though the cafe that I met one of my dearest and most treasured friend. I had many friends from my army days and from meeting regulars in the cafe, but there was no-one quite like this man. He could see every crack and flaw in me (of which I had many), could tell their past from what they said, and still he loved me. We were the cream to each others coffee, polar opposites in many ways but like magnets we stuck together like glue.

This man's name was Hercule Poirot, and this is the story of how we fell in love.

BREAK

It was a warm May afternoon when we met, one of the first fine days of the year. The cafe was going strong, gaining new customers each day as the populace celebrated in the aftermath of the end of war. Two years had not fully erased the damage caused in conflict on this street - the watchman's tower was still staffed each night by the Home Front, and the church still hadn't the funds to replace the bell tower which an air raid had knocked clean off. Marion had arrived a little later than usual, looking flustered as she rushed into the cafe, tying her hair up with a ribbon as she went.

"Captain, my apologies for being late. Some of my countrymen arrived in the city over the weekend. I went to greet them."

"It's quite alright," I replied, looking up from the floor where I was scrubbing at a particularly stubborn bit of dirt. "Anyone you know?"

"Only one. A retired policeman, a Monsieur Poirot - he used to patrol my street when I was a girl. The others are strangers."

"I see." The name Poirot rang a bell in the back of my mind, but I couldn't recall where I heard it. "They are settling in alright?"

"Oui, they seem settled. Monsieur Poirot has been very good at teaching them all about English custom - he's the only one who's been here before."

"Oh yes? I thought I recognised the name."

"He was the detective that helped with the Abercrombie Forgery case, if you recall."

"Oh, I remember now! You knew him?" The Abercrombie Forgery case had been one of the most curious cases of 1912. The police were stumped, the public were confounded, and the press were even running competitions for the most ludicrous and convoluted theories for how it was done. And then Mister Poirot, whose name was misspelled in nearly all major newspapers, appeared seemingly out of nowhere and pointed the police in the right direction, wrapping the case up in a few days compared to the months Scotland Yard has been working on it.

"I did. Of course, he was Inspecteur Poirot when he used to patrol our streets. He's just Monsieur Poirot now - he retired last year. You might meet him, if you're lucky - I mentioned that I worked here, and he seemed most interested in coming to visit after church with the other Belgians."

"It would be nice for you two to catch up some more, if he does come up here. I'll have you working tables this morning so you can speak more, if you'd like?"

She gave me a grateful smile. "That would be fantastic, sir."

BREAK

True to her word, a group of Belgian men did arrive later that morning. The cafe had quietened from it's pre-work breakfast rush, and so Marion had plenty of time to welcome the men in and settle them. I saw her greet someone in the crowd quite profusely, and although I could not see him fully, I guessed that it was Monsieur Poirot.

I had assumed that Monsieur Poirot would be like the other men in the group - reserved, quiet, grey haired, having reached the age of seventy without speaking a word of English - so when Marion led a man only few years older than I to the bar, I was quite taken aback. Not to mention his exotic looks had rather taken my fancy - dark hair, broad shoulders, styled moustache and neat, compact hands all added to his looks, but his expressive eyes, coloured a brilliant green, had me raptured.

"Captain Hastings," Marion said, drawing my attention away from the remarkable man in front of me. "this is Monsieur Poirot, who I told you about earlier."

"Bien sur, it is very nice to meet you, Captain." The small man smiled, taking me by the hand and greeting me in the full continental style with two kisses on each cheek. I could feel the heat rising in my cheek at such flamboyant greeting, but a warm bubbling feeling had arisen in my stomach, and as I pulled away, I felt my lips tugs into a returning smile.

"And you too, Monsieur Poirot. I remembered your name from the Abercrombie forgery case."

"Oh yes? You had some interest in it?"

"I say! It was one of the most interesting cases of the year! You must've been some special kind of detective to solve it, I must say."

The little man beamed and practically glowed at the praise. I grinned back, inwardly promising myself to try and convince him to look at me like that again. I small cough drew my attention back to Marion, who was looking between us both with a raised eyebrow. She quietly handed me the order sheet, before sorting through the numerous pastry dishes on the list. I started to make the drinks - coffee and tisane with the occasional tea thrown in.

Poirot did not immediately return to his Belgian friends as we worked, instead opting to lean against the bar and watch me work quietly. Sometimes we would exchange small talk, but more often than not, he would just observe as I pulled cups and saucers from the shelf. I found his attention a little distracting, but not unwelcome - although he said little, the tidbits that he did let slip were like a trail of breadcrumbs that I could not help but follow.

The companionable silence was not to last. Soon enough, the kettle had boiled, the coffee was made, the pastries arrived from the oven in a cloud of steam and icing sugar. Since we had three trays to take over, Poirot insisted on carrying something over to the table, and unwilling to battle over the matter, I let him take the lead with pastry basket, which gave me ample time to observe him from behind.

The Belgians seated at the table greeted us in a mixture of polite French and broken English as we arrived, laden with food and drink. They all thanked us kindly for our attentions, before turning to quietly converse in their native tongue. I turned to leave them in peace, but before I did so, I caught the eye of Poirot. He smiled kindly at me, and raised a hand in farewell. I smiled back before returning to work.

The smile lingered long after he was gone

BREAK

Poirot continued to visit the cafe nearly daily after that day. He always had the same thing - tisane and a brioche, and a glass of orange juice plus extra brioche if it were before ten. Even after he set up his private detective business, he would never miss an opportunity to drop in to say hello, sometimes even interviewing suspects here. We often took the opportunity to speak during our brief encounters, and it wasn't long before we were firm friends.

Years passed, and this pattern never changed. Three years had come and gone, and much had changed. The end of rationing, the boom of industry, the night's streets filled with jazz instead of fire and blood… It was a different world now. And yet, there still remained the stability of seeing him again in the cafe. Ses only coming once a day, sometimes coming at the end of the working day so that we could sit together with our coffees and pastries and watch the rush hour traffic course down the main street.

I always looked forward to seeing him. Perhaps too much so. I had began to notice my eyes drifting to him whenever I was deep in thought. The admiring glances were becoming far more frequent. I took note when he wore a new cravat, or had a new tie pin. I began to crave his voice like a businessman craved coffee. I often wished that our time together would not end, that he never would have to put on his coat and walk down the rapidly darkened streets by himself, that I could accompany him back to his home...

In short, I was starting to fall hard for him.

My own interest in men did not surprise me much. I had seen worse atrocities during the war, and the company of fellow soldiers during the cold nights of shell fire was preferable to surviving them alone. Although trench romance rarely amounted to anything, sometimes the feelings lived long after warfare had ended. I did not spend time sitting and questioning my feelings - I found accepting them and moving on saved much heartache in the long run.

However, I was still not sure what Poirot's own inclination was. I had noted the signs that I recognised from the trenches - indulgent smiles, lingering glances, exuberant interest in what I had to say - that implied that he may be interested, however all of the soldiers I had been engaged with had been stiff lipped Englishmen. I had never engaged in a liaison with a passionate Continental before. For all I knew, all these signs I had picked up could be as a result of his exaggerate personality.

Had I been the man I was before the war, I would've hesitated at making a move. Luckily, I was not that man. Perhaps it was the mood of the decade, or the awareness from war that life is fleeting, but when I awoke one day with a peculiar sense of luck, I decided to try my chances.

Today was the day.

He arrived a little after one on this particular day. It was expected - it was a Saturday, and as such church service was drawn out far longer than normal - however, normally he arrived at least an hour earlier than this. I had been nervously washing and rewashing the same few glasses all morning, so much so that Marion had started to joke that they were the only useable cups we had left. And when I was not drying cups, I was worrying a small hole in the tea towel I had been using, a hole that was gradually getting bigger the longer I waited for him.

Finally, when I had nearly given up all hope of him coming at all today, he arrived. The doorbell jangled as he came indoors, fully wrapped up in scarves as was his habit during the autumn months. I noted that today he seemed even more handsome than he usually did - he wore a dark suit that I knew he only wore on special occasions, his leather shoes were polished within an inch of their lives, and as he removed his scarves, I saw the tie pin I had bought him last Christmas gleaming near his throat. I wondered what the occasion was.

"Good afternoon, Poirot." I greeted him as he approached the bar, discreetly throwing the tea towel under the table. "You're looking smart today."

"Merci, monsieur." Poirot replied, beaming happily at me. "A very dear friend of mine has recently returned from Budapest."

"That is good news. You have already seen them today?"

"Not as of yet. We were to meet at her hotel in The Cadogan yesterday, but she was unable to keep the appointment. Enfin, I suggested we reconvene here today at one o'clock. In fact-" Here, he reached into his pocket and flipped open his fob watch to check the time. "-she is late. Ah, but it is worth waiting a little extra time to see the great Countess Rossakoff!"

"I am sure she will arrive soon enough." I replied, momentarily stunned by the news of a woman. "Shall I get you your usual?"

This had really thrown a spanner in my plan. Not once in the year and a half I had known him had he ever mentioned a woman, and now suddenly out of the blue, there arrived one on scene. And a Countess to boot! No wonder he was dressed to the nines. I could add two and two together and reach four, and from the way he spoke of her, and the little bounce to his step whenever he walked, I could tell he was at least besotted by her. I picked up the towel and resumed worrying the hole in it. Everything had to be put on the backburner for now.

However, as the clock struck two, and there was no sign of the girl, I started to wonder whether the feeling was reciprocated. But Poirot did not seem at all bothered by his guests' tardiness. I soon found out this was not the first time she had arrived late. Often enough the woman would arrive several hours late, or would call the place where they were meeting and cancel. Sometimes he would only ever see her if they bumped into each other on the street. He didn't seem to mind - being so besotted with her, he excused her every fault. Personally, I abhorred her callousness, and could not see how she could leave such a man as this in the lurch. But I held my tongue, only bringing him tisane when he ordered it, and exchanging small talk.

It was nearly closing time when the woman finally made her presence known. Poirot had been waiting for three and a half hours by now. The street lights outdoors had been now been lit, and the sun had long since vanished below the horizon. The cafe was now dimly lit from the streetlights outdoors, elongating shadows and bathing the room in an orange glow. I was quietly drying glasses in the back room when the phone rang in my office, the sharp ring shattering the quiet atmosphere like a whip crack. I rushed in, towel in hand, and grabbed the receiver.

"The Ana Monte, Arthur Hastings speaking."

"Good afternoon." A smooth Russian voice purred out of the speaker and I almost dropped the receiver, not expecting such a voice. "My name is Countess Rossakoff. I have a message I wish for you to pass on to Hercule Poirot. Is he here?"

"Oh, yes he is, but you must speak to him yourself!" I cried, putting down the dishcloth I held and leaning against my desk. "He's been waiting for you for hours."

"He has? That was kind of him. But I cannot speak to him right now. I have a message to pass on. I've travelled to Dover, and will be taking the next boat to the Americas."

"The Americas?! But he told me that you came back from Budapest only last week!"

"Yes, but… circumstances. Circumstances, you know."

"I still don't see why you can't tell him this yourself."

"Because I must be quick. Pass on this call, would you? And ask him to settle my bill at The Cadogan. It's about two hundred pounds."

"But-" The line went dead. I replaced the phone, fighting down the feeling of outrage I felt. The cheek of the woman! To arrange to meet someone then sail off to a different continent! And especially to a man such as mister Poirot! Yes, he had his quirks - an ego bigger than London, for a start - but to treat someone in such cavalier way left a bitter taste in the back of my throat. No, mister Poirot would not pay for that woman's hotel bill. Not on my watch.

I leant down and pulled out the second drawer down. My fingers traced a familiar path around pots of pins and rolls of sellotape until I found my personal checkbook. I did not make much money from the cafe, but after a year of scrimping and saving, I had a tidy sum of at least two hundred and fifty pounds in my account. I had originally planned to spend it on a trip to visit the small town of M-, where several comrades had now settled after the war. I had spoken of this trip at length to both Poirot and Marion, as well as any other interested party - however, that trip would have to wait until next year. This was more important. Quickly scrawling and signing a two hundred pound check, I called Marion in from the bar where she was doing some cleaning.

"The woman that foreign man's waiting for, she isn't going to arrive, is he?" Marion asked as she walked into my office. I shook my head.

"No, she just called to say. Could run this check over to The Cadogan? Say it's to settle a Madame Rossakoff's bill. You can go home after that."

She nodded, looking a little nonplussed, but took the check nonetheless. She looked down at the check in her hand, and let out a gasp when she saw the amount written on the check.

"Two hundred pounds!" she cried. "From your wages too! What is this for?"

"It's for Poirot," I said, fully aware that the open door meant the man in question could probably hear us, and lowering my voice as a result. "The woman he's waiting for, not only did she not turn up, she's sailing to the Americas and wants him to settle her bill."

"That's terrible of her!" Marion exclaimed. I motioned for her to lower her voice too, and she whispered an apology, before continuing in a softer voice. "But why are you paying it, sir?"

"I don't think it would be fair on him to pay it." I murmured back. Marion looked at me calculatively for a few moments.

"Are you sure you want to pay it? I mean, you won't have enough to go to France now."

There was a slight pang of disappointment at the mention that I would have to put my holiday on hold, but I was not going to turn back now. He was not going to pay that ghastly woman. I had never been so sure of anything in my life.

"Absolutely."

BREAK

It took ten minutes of frantic pacing in my office before I plucked up the courage to approach Mister Poirot with the news. Holding a tisane in one hand, and stopping the shaking of my wrist with the other, I walked through the nearly empty cafe towards him. He turned at my approach, and smiled softly upon seeing it was me.

"What is this?" He asked, eyeing the tisane with a little confusion.

"This one is from me," I said, placing it on the table near his elbow. Poirot's eyes lit up, and he thanked me softly, indicating I should take the seat opposite, as he usually did at the end of my shift. I hesitated, then took the seat across from him, clasping my hands together to try and stop them shaking, and trying to hide my anxiety.

"I cannot help but notice something is on your mind, my friend." Poirot said after a while, taking a sip of his tisane as he did so. I raised my eyebrows in surprise, and he smiled at me. "Your hands are not as steady as you wish them to be."

"Your little grey cells have not failed you," I remarked dryly, looking out the window at the street. "I had a call from Madame Rossakoff."

"Oh?" Poirot was nonchalantly, drying his lips with his napkin, but I could see he had perked up. I felt a lump of jealousy broil in my stomach, but I pushed it down.

"Yes. She isn't coming here to see you. She's gone to Dover."

"Dover? The port?"

"Yes. She's... She's sailing for the Americas on the next boat."

"Sacre." He looked so crestfallen that I almost reached out to comfort him, but I restrained myself just in time. That was not something one's waiter did after all. No matter how regular the customer was.

"I'm sorry." The apology seemed inadequate, but he seemed to appreciate it, smiling softly at me, before letting it fall away, going back to swirling the tisane leaves at the bottom of the glass.

"Pas du tout. I had suspected something of the sort." he murmured, getting up and draining the last of his tisane. He placed the empty cup back on the table with a neatclink. "Thank you for passing on the message, Captain. Was there anything else?"

He looked so forlorn. Although I thought he should know the extent of that woman's disregard for him, I was loath to rub any more salt into the wound at this time. Also, finding out I had paid the bill for him may lead to questions that I no longer wanted to answer.

"No, that was all." He looked at me curiously, as if he knew there was something else, but he did not press the matter, instead taking his scarf from the back of the chair and tying it tightly around his neck. Inwardly, I breathed a sigh of relief. I took his cup to clean up, just as he pulled on his coat to leave.

"Captain?"

"Yes?"

"Merci, for the tisane."

"It's no problem." I looked up to give him a small smile, but I froze, locked in gaze with the man in front of me. He looked both forlorn and tired, as if this were the last straw, but he did not wish it to be. I was overcome by a feeling of helplessness - more than anything I wanted to wipe away the tired lines that marred his face, to hold him close and defend him from any harm that came his way. But I could not. I had done what I could.

I blinked, and he was gone.

BREAK

Poirot didn't return to the cafe the next day. Or the day after. Or for the rest of the week. I worried he had taken the sudden flight of the woman rather badly, and that he had taken to mourning her loss in private. I worried about him; his absence was a constant presence in the back of my mind as I worked, and was a persistent thought when I retired to bed. Although I tried to put him to the back of my mind and work normally, even Marion could tell I was out of sorts.

Weeks went by, and not once did he turn up at his usual appointed hour. Guy Fawkes night passed in a shower of bright sparks and smoke, and yet his chair remained dark and empty. Christmas came and went, but the gift I had bought especially lay alone among the tattered remnants of wrapping paper and tinsel. He didn't even turn up on Sundays for post-sermon coffee.

The refugees didn't know where he was either, having asked me in broken English whether I had seen him whilst ordering their usual pastries. It transpired that he had not been going to morning service either, and a knock on his flat door yielded nothing. He had not even turned up for Christmas service - I hadn't gone either, but it seemed something that was quite a rarity among the Belgians. They all assured me that they would continue to look out for him, although by the time they left, it seemed they weren't so much looking out for him as staging a full-blown investigation and search party.

It wasn't until New Years Eve when I saw him again. Snow had been falling thickly throughout the week, although today it was only feathering from the heavens. Even so, the layer of snow on the ground was nearly half a foot deep, and had stopped most of the day to day commuters from leaving their homes. The cafe had not seen much trade, only the odd passerby looking to find a warm spot to warm up after being in the snow, and by lunchtime I had sent Marion home because there was barely anyone to serve.

Hours passed, and finally at quarter to six, I decided to call it a day and pack up too. I was only wasting electricity by keeping open during this weather. Mentally marking this as another day where Poirot had not turned up, I dimmed the lights and changed the door sign to "Closed", before starting on the minimal amount of washing up I needed to do. There wasn't much to be cleaned, but I was pretty sure I would be there for at least an hour, and I needed to get it done otherwise I would have to spend longer on it tomorrow.

I was lucky that the kitchen had a window above the sink facing the main street, or else I would've missed the event that was about to follow. I happened to glance out the window to check the church tower for the time, when I noticed a peculiar passerby walking on the other side of the road. This person seemed completely mummified in various scarves and coats, so much so that only a thin sliver of face could be seen of the person inside. They was staring at the front of the cafe, and I guessed that they had been for some time, given that the light snow had begun to cover the footprints they had left behind them. I wondered vaguely whether I should go out and greet this stranger, when they turned and began to walk away. That would've been the end of the encounter, had it not been for a stray taxi trundling along the street. The bright headlights shone and reflected on the small sliver of skin that was visible of the person, and revealed what lay upon them - a pair of green, cat-like eyes.

The plate I had been drying had slipped from my grasp and shattered on the floor before I properly registered it's loss. Was that him? I leant forward and squinted into the darkness. The person raised a hand to hail the cab. Even separated by a pane of glass and several feet of snow, there was no mistaking the accented murmur of address to the driver, and the shuffle of patent leather shoes. A smile broke out across my face. It was him!

Dropping the dishcloth on the floor, I raced through the cafe and out onto the street, not even pausing to grab a coat and hat. The taxi was driving off just as I hit the pavement, but I ran after it, slipping and sliding in the snow as I went. Although I knew that I couldn't keep up with a car in this weather. And soon enough, the car turned around a corner, and vanished from sight. By the time I slid around the turn, the cab had parked up by a set of flats, and as I approached, I realised that only the cab driver was sat in it. He had gone.

"Monsieur Poirot?" I called out. There was no answer. I cursed quietly, looking this way and that to check he really had gone. There seemed to be no sign of any life on the streets - only the distant sound of radios and gramophones accompanied my frantic breathing. I kicked at the snow in disappointment, letting out a frustrated sigh. I had missed him. I turned to go back to the cafe

And stopped. Dead. For there, stepping into the bright spotlight of a street lamp, was Monsieur Poirot.

For the first three seconds, I simply stared, taking in the sight of him standing there, face now visible after shedding a scarf or three, and lips curved into a soft smile. I felt a grin spread across my face, and it only took a few strides until I was stood in front of him and grasping him by the shoulders, as if to check he was real. Poirot extended a cat-like grin at my actions, before taking the opportunity to greet me in the continental style with a kiss on each cheek.

"Mon ami, Captain Hastings!" he cried. "It has been far too long!"

"It has!" I agreed enthusiastically. "But, where have you been?! Everyone's been so worried about you!"

"I had a little… business I needed to attend to." he replied. It seemed only then that he saw my rolled up sleeves and lack of coat, and he tutted quietly to himself. I shivered and rubbed my arms self consciously, but Poirot batted my hands away, using his own dexterous fingers to meticulously unfold and smooth my shirt down.

"Hastings, you will catch your death if you make a habit of leaving your coat behind." he muttered as he fiddled with the button on the cuff.

"I was a little busy chasing after your cab to worry about the cold." Poirot simply murmured a Gallic sound of frustration, but I could see by the pleased little smile that toyed with his lips that he was rather happy I had chosen to chase him down the street. He finished buttoning my sleeves, before stepping back and looking me up and down appraisingly. With a flourish, he removed his outermost coat and wrapped it around my coat was very warm, and as I pulled it tighter around myself, the upturned collar brushed teasingly against my cheek, catching my breath as it did so, The scent of brandy and smoke infiltrated my surroundings, and it was all I could do to stop myself from closing my eyes and basking in it.

"There," Poirot murmured quietly, brushing the coat down almost absent mindedly. "Perhaps now you will not catch the cold then, enfin?"

"Perhaps…" I pretended to think, although I knew exactly what I would say. "Maybe to be sure we should both go for cocoa? Just to stave off the chill."

Poirot laughed quietly, before offering his arm to me. I thought nothing about taking it, so elated that I was to see him again. We strolled down the snowy boulevard in companionable silence back to the cafe, snow white flakes toppling and dancing across our flushed cheeks. There was no-one on the streets on our way back either, which was just as well since the quiet snow filled streets matched our mood perfectly. But all too soon we were scurrying into the darkened cafe and hanging our coats up. Poirot settled himself into the chair by the window, whilst I set about heating milk and warming up pastries.

"It's quite strange, you know." I remarked as I came to the table, carrying a tray laden with food and drink. "I was only talking about you the other day."

"Vraiment?" he replied, nodding his thanks to me as I placed the platter and drinks on the table.

"Yes. It was with one of your Belgian friends- Arnaud, I think. Curly hair, thin as a rake?"

"Yes, that is Arnaud."

"I had to try and convince him that it wasn't a good idea to fly out to the Americas to find you. He was very gung ho about it all. Have you spoken to your Belgian friends yet?"

"I have not. I chose to see you first." I looked down, attempting hiding the blush that stained my cheeks and the giddy smile that threatened to take over my face. I glanced up at Poirot, and noticed that he was smiling benignly at my plight. In an effort to distract myself from the warm feeling in the pit of my stomach, I turned around, walked back to the bar and plucked a small package from behind it.

"Here - I never got to give you this." I said, sitting across from him and sliding the parcel across the table. "You weren't here for Christmas, so… joyeux noel, I think the phrase is?"

He smiled at my attempt at French, before reaching out and grasping the brown paper package. He untied the string with deliberate care, slowly unraveling the small box. I had originally wanted to buy him something that was a little more expensive, however after the unexpected debacle with Madame Rossakoff, I found that I was unable to afford it. Luckily, I had stumbled across a less expensive gift that I found suited this man far better than the previous. As he pushed the wrapping aside and flicked the catch on the box, I crossed my fingers under the table, hoping he felt the same as I did.

"Hastings… these are magnifique." Poirot breathed as he took in the bronze and emerald cufflinks that I had bought him, specifically chosen because they reminded me of my friends enthralling green eyes. I let out the breath I had been holding.

"I hoped you would like them. I thought they would suit you." I replied, smiling. He beamed back, before closing the box and tucking it away in his coat

"I too have your Christmas gift," he told me, his happy grin slipping into one that was far more content. "but first I must tell you of the mystery that surrounded this gift, and the reason why I left London."

"Mystery? This sounds interesting,"

"Bien sur, it was a most interesting mystery. But you do not need to worry, Captain," There was that smile again, the kindly smile that left my all aflutter. "Poirot knows all now."

"Knows what?"

Instead of answering immediately, Poirot took a sip of his cocoa, meticulously drying his lips with his napkin before continuing. "You recall on the night of our last meeting, I had been… comment dit-on.."

"Stood up?" I supplied.

"D'accord. But when I returned to my flat, I received a telegram. Madame Rossakoff had requested I go to see her in the Americas."

"She what?!" I responded, outraged on his behalf. "That's not fair!"

"Calm yourself, mon ami. I did not accede to her request."

"Quite right." With a little difficulty I pushed the anger I felt down to the pit of my stomach, leaving it to bubble uncomfortably in my gut.

"We did however share a phone call. And mon dieu, when I picked up the phone, she was in such a state of anger! For you see, she was of the impression that I had...'jilted' her, I believe the phrase is?"

"Jilted?" I asked, confused.

"Oui. You see, before she left, she had sent a message to me requesting I settle her bill - a message I did not receive-" At this, he nodded at me knowingly, and I flushed at being found out. "-but pas du tout. Her hotel had phoned her earlier notifying her of the payment not by Hercule Poirot, but by 'a blonde haired floozy from your neck of the woods'."

"With a little digging, I discovered more about this mysterious girl. She was young, blonde, pretty, and most importantly to Madame Rossakoff, very clearly Belgian. Madame Rossakoff did not say her name, but I soon discovered it."

"How?" I asked.

"I telephoned the hotel in question. They were able to tell me that the girl that delivered the check was none other than young Marion who worked here."

"Oh yes?"

"Yes indeed, mon ami. But that was not the end of the mystery. There were many questions unanswered. For example, why would Marion pay on my behalf? We were friends, yes, but I had never spoken to her about Madame Rossakoff. It was very unlikely that the check itself came from her. And so, I requested the name that appeared on the check. Do you know who's name was on the check?"

"Who?" I pretended to be completely nonplussed, even though I knew the answer to the question. Poirot was looking straight through the facade, I could tell, but it was always far more fun to let him do the revealing.

"It was your name, Hastings. I later confirmed this fact with Mademoiselle Marion when I spoke to her on Guy Fawkes night."

"You spoke to her on Guy Fawkes night?"

"Mais oui."

"She could've told me! I've been worried sick-!" I stopped myself before I revealed too much and embarrassed myself. Poirot was smiling softly at me again, as if he knew what I was about to say. I blushed furiously, and fiddled with my own napkin to give my hands something to do.

"Be calm, mon brave, the mystery is not yet over."

"It's not?"

"Non, it is not. I had found the secret bill-settler, however I was missing something. Something did not make sense."

"You are not a rich man, Captain Hastings, this I already know. Madame Vera stayed at The Cadogan during her trip, which is well known for being tres cher. And the lady herself, she spends her money most lavishly. The bill was quite large, was it not?

"Not really." I mumbled. It was a lot, but I was not going to boast of how much I paid.

"Ah, Hastings. You English and your modesty. I already know of the sum paid to the hotel by yourself, and I know that it is a great deal more than what you earn in a year. The question was where did this money come from? And why spend it to prevent the injustice of an old man such as I?"

"You're not old." I said, before I could stop myself. I flushed again, and went back to fiddling with the napkin, missing the pleased smile Poirot sent my way.

"You are too amiable, Captain. But there still remained these two questions to which I did not have the answer. The first answer was very easy to discover. By some happenstance, I had been hired to take on a political case in France. The sensitive nature of the case meant that I could tell no-one of what it concerned, only that I was going to France on business. However, I was in luck, for the case was situated in small village of M-."

"I remembered as I travelled that you had planned to visit M- during this month. There is only one inn that you could've stayed in in that village, and during my six week stay in the town, you did not arrive in the town for your vacation, nor was there any booking for you at the inn. It was then I realised where this money had come from - and this also confirmed my own answer to the second question."

I opened my mouth to ask what he meant, but Poirot hushed me with a look. With deliberate movements, he removed the napkin from my hands and folded it away, before clasping my fingers in his. Despite my heart hammering in my chest and everything shaking from nerves, I felt a jolt of warmth at the contact. Did this mean…?

"You see, when I travelled to France, I met a man who reminded me of you. An Englishman, always concerned with fair play, who took most things at face value. He worked as a secretary to a high-ranking official, to whom he was deeply enamoured. The recipient of his attentions did not realise this - the young man was not obvious about it, but after a little studying, it was evident to Poirot what he felt."

"It case itself was not unique - a simple blackmailer with many a trick up their sleeve - however what intrigued me was that despite the blackmailer claiming to have taken money from this officer, and had records to prove it, the officer and the bank of the officer both confirmed that no money had been taken from his accounts with them, and that the officer had no other business with other banks."

"It seemed that this young English man had been paying the ransom for his master. He had lost his years' savings and half his years wages paying the blackmailer his sum excessif every time he wrote. The officer saw no hide nor hair of the ransom letters, just as the man intended - he did not want the object of his affection to know of the injustice that others wished to cause him."

"Does that not sound similar to your story, mon chou?"

Poirot was looking directly into my eyes, his amber orbs glinting with a certain softness and intensity that made me feel weak at the knees. It made me feel vulnerable. Had it been anyone else that made me feel like this, I would've been running for the hills by now. But I trusted this man, this funny little man, almost implicitly. He made me feel more secure than I had ever been in my life.

"It wasn't fair." I said, haltingly. "It wasn't fair for her to do that. You were so patient with her… I couldn't sit by and watch her treat you like her plaything, you must understand-"

Poirot squeezed my hand comfortingly. "I do, mon captain, I do."

I smiled balefully at him, drawing support from our joined hands, before continuing in a far more serious tone. "You are worth more than occasional tete-a-tete, Poirot. I hope you realise that."

"You think so?"

"Of course!"

"Then I hope that this-" Here, he slid a neatly folded envelope across the table. "-shows that I regard you in a similar light."

I took the envelope in hand, and cut the seal with my fingernail. Tipping out the contents, I spread them across the table and examined them - and felt myself smile when I saw what they were.

"You see, mon captain," Poirot said, with a twinkle in his eye. "I wish to take you on the vacation you did not complete this year - that is, your trip to the town of M-. If you still wish to, that is-"

I didn't let him finish. Pushing all our cups and plates to one side, I leant over the table and kissed him senseless.


End file.
